


Brennisteinn

by FiliTheLionKing (IAmYourWatson)



Series: The God of Poetry and the God of Death [4]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Anders has seen some crazy shit before but this takes the cake, Bragi isn't very useful this time around, Hostage Situations, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mitchell is Donn the Celtic Lord of the Dead, Mitchell is mortal now and is the god of death, Mitchell using his god powers, Religious Fanaticism, Threats of Violence, Violence, You better not mess with his boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmYourWatson/pseuds/FiliTheLionKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time has passed since Mitchell became the mortal vessel of Donn, Celtic Lord of the Dead. He's gotten used to his powers, and has even brought Anders along on some of his ferrying missions. The two have forged an even deeper bond than before, and are so in love that they are willing to give their lives so that the other may live. Their lives are settling down into a nice routine, even though navigating godly politics and the Johnson family's usual issues can take a toll on them both. Still, though, they like where they are in life, and think that maybe their bad luck is calming down a bit.</p><p>Cue fanatic god hunters, a showdown in Mike's bar, and the resurfacing of Mitchell's violent tendencies. The god of the dead is not so easily defeated, and he should never be ignored. Mess with his vessel, and you may find yourself on the wrong end of his powers. </p><p>The god of the dead is not a forgiving god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brennisteinn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, my darlings! Here is another installment of The God of Poetry and The God of the Dead! Sorry to keep you waiting for so long; The Ice King and A Witch and His Vampire were keeping my muse busy, and I didn't have anything for this series swimming in and out of my brain for a long time. I hope this was worth the wait! Someone requested more on Mitchell's powers, so here it is! Hopefully this is what you were talking about, so let me know if you wanna know more. And anyone at all can request a fic about them, whether it explores their powers or their relationship or even just revolves around a silly situation! Please leave me a note! Comments and critiques make my day! The Lioness is off to sleep again (I have a bad habit of posting these late at night heehee). Goodnight!

God hunters. People who took religion much too seriously, and twisted the words of their god to mean things that they were never intended to mean. At least, that’s what Anders Johnson thought, when he deigned to think about them at all. Quite frankly, he was tired of them all. They’d nearly killed Helen, mortal vessel of Idunn, and it was only due to quick thinking on Mitchell’s part that they were even saved. (Helen had come over for lunch, with Donn acting as chaperone so that the god and goddess didn’t take over and make them do stupid things). The former vampire had always been quick, even in his first life, so he’d managed to sneak behind the hunter and knock her out. The police called her a religious fanatic, and Anders had convinced the policemen to take her away and keep her in total lockdown. They’d been lucky that time. 

He was afraid that next time would be the death of a god or a goddess. Anders knew which god he would protect above all else, and he wasn’t from the Norse pantheon.

Dealing with the intricacies of godly politics was wearing on the both of them, especially Anders, who’d been officially exhausted by it ever since Colin had tried to force Axl into marrying Eva. Mitchell had gotten his stomachful when trying to keep Anders from drinking his problems away every time his family rejected him or put him down. He was fond enough of Ty, but everyone else was currently on his shit list. Still, Anders loved his family, and Mitchell would always respect that, remembering with great sorrow his own long-dead family in Ireland. In between all the god-related bullshit, he was still ferrying souls back and forth into death, sometimes aided by Anders, who was sometimes allowed to follow him into the corridor and calm a frantic soul. Even without his god powers, Anders had a way with words that few Mitchell had ever met possessed. Bragi was alway separated from Anders’ body in the corridor, and he kept silent. The blonde god’s long hair was always the brightest thing in the hallway, and he often kept silent and disappeared while they were on death’s door. 

Both men had a lot on their shoulders, so of course the universe needed to load even more problems on them. It was just how their luck worked, and they’d both gotten used to it by now. The two gods were growing more and more powerful together, a force to be reckoned with, even with Anders’ powers at a relative minimum compared to what they could be. Mitchell had all the powers a vessel of Donn could have, however, and they were strong. It would come in handy whenever they had a problem, and right now, they had a  _very_  big problem: three god hunters surrounded him, Anders, Mike, Axl, Ty, and Olaf in Mike’s bar. Axl hadn’t had time to get to his sword, and Mike had nothing but bottles and a small knife for cutting up limes. Crossbows and blades pointed at the gods; it seemed like archaic weapons were their modus operandi among the god hunters. 

Anders knew that if he didn’t talk them out of this, he’d have to watch his whole family die. There was no way they were getting out of this. His baby brothers, Mike, Olaf, and his lover were all in the direct line of fire, and his powers were awfully limited. He could only coerce people to do things they already wanted to do, but wouldn’t, and these hunters were not the type to back down from their goal easily. His mind rapidly ran through all their options, but they were coming back limited and few. If Mike had only installed a silent alarm…but even then, the police would be too late for them. They had only seconds before the leader of the god hunters finished giving his stupid speech about ‘abominations’ and ‘holy war’. His eyes closed, preparing to meet his end, his hand slowly moving to meet Mitchell’s.

But Mitchell wasn’t there anymore. Anders’ eyes flew open. He might as well have kept them closed, because he could hardly believe what he saw in the next few moments.

Everyone knew what Mitchell had been: a soldier, a vampire, a killer, a mass murderer of epic proportions. While most of the Johnsons were still wary of him, they also (for the most part) believed that his past was behind him, that all of his evil was a symptom of his disease, not his personality. Besides, he brought Anders so much happiness, mellowed him out so much, that they weren’t all that eager to be rid of him. Right now, though, they were especially glad for his past. His past had been one of bloodshed and war, of fighting and killing, and they were glad, because this made him something that they all were not: a warrior.

He struck fast, like a viper that had found the perfect moment to attack its prey. Even though he didn’t have the supernatural speed and strength of the vampires anymore, he was still fast and lithe. Luckily, he’d been standing behind Olaf, which had given him enough cover to subtly shift his weight before he dived for the nearest hunter, the leader. The tall, redheaded man was cut off mid-speech, the wind knocked from him as Mitchell tackled him to the ground. The god of the dead was already back on his feet when the hunter’s two minion, another man and a woman, turned to help their boss. With a lightning-fast kick, Mitchell knocked the woman down and spun, using his momentum to smash his fist into the remaining man’s face. None of the Johnson’s could move, too stunned and amazed to even realize that they should be helping or calling for the police. 

The leader of the hunters had managed to get to his feet, and he made the rookie mistake of leaving his weapons untouched, instead going for a hand-to-hand fight with the former vampire. Mitchell was too great an opponent for him, however, and with a few fancy moves he’d learned from a Savat expert (it’s a long story), Mitchell had the man back on the floor, bleeding profusely from his nose. The woman came back at him with a knife, the blade flashing in the low lighting of the bar, and she managed to cut a gash into Mitchell’s arm before he could disarm her. Again, she met the floor, this time after being sent flying over a table. Mitchell might have been born during the age of chivalry, but if a woman came after his boyfriend and tried to kill him, the god of death would show no mercy. They were lucky he was even leaving them alive. 

A sharp yell caught Mitchell’s attention as he was going for the leader yet again, who was struggling to get up; he was probably concussed. The dark-haired man turned and gasped, his eyes going wide as he took in the scene before him: the male lackey had Anders in a tight grip, using his height advantage against the god of poetry, and he had a gun to his head. Anders’ blue eyes were wide and scared, but held the same steely determination that Mitchell had fallen in love with when they first met. He would die for his brothers; Anders’ look made it clear. He’d rather die than let anyone else take a bullet for him, not if he had any choice in the matter. And even though it made Mitchell love him all the more for it, the god of death couldn’t let his lover die in front of him. 

Something snapped inside of Mitchell; a dark, black fog descended over his eyes, as if he was vamping out again. Anders’ eyes widened, while everyone else held their breath. Only Anders knew what this meant nowadays, when Mitchell’s eyes went black; he was invoking Donn, he was  _becoming_  Donn, and no one who saw the black eyes lived to tell the tale, save for Anders. Donn only ever let Mitchell invoke him in times of great peril or fear, and the two became one in a way Anders and Bragi had never managed too, not yet at least. The room went darker, as if the windows had been covered with thick, black curtains, and an eerie fog rose from the floor as if by magic. The god hunters cowered in fear, realizing that their god couldn’t save them now. They were at the mercy of a much older force that they’d ever faced before. Donn was angry.

The man pressed Anders a bit closer to him, and the blonde’s eyes were becoming more and more frightened, but what he was  _really_  frightened of was how far Donn/Mitchell’s wrath would go, and not of the man holding a gun to his head. Even Mike, who was usually so level-headed and calm, looked scared of Donn/Mitchell now. The Johnsons now knew why Mitchell had been so feared when he was a vampire. The hunter was frightened as well, but he did his best to hide it; a stupid move, really, because he started spouting threats and demands at the god before him. His two companions were shaking on the floor or against the wall, wherever they had fallen. The tables had turned; there was no escape. 

Slowly, as if he was floating underwater, Donn/Mitchell raised his hand, his palm facing the hunter. Dark energy swirled, and distantly Anders could hear a door opening. It was as he feared: Donn was granting Mitchell the use of his ultimate weapon, the ability to rip a soul from its body and cast it deep into the afterlife, never to return. The room went cold, the air was thick with fog and fear, and Anders waited. Donn/Mitchell spoke in Gaelic, his words full of power and ancient magic. No one could understand him, not even the god of words and poetry, but they all could feel the judgement, the finality of the statement. And like a puppet on a string, the body of the hunter went limp, falling to the floor in a pile of limbs as his soul was dragged from his body, screaming, and pulled into the afterlife. There would be no quarter for them this night; judgement day would come early for these three. 

Anders stood shivering, shuddering as he couldn’t tear his eyes off of his lover in all of his dark power and fearsome glory. The other two hunters tried to run, heading for the door, only it was the wrong door. This door was made of iron, with bars and locks and old bloodstains on it. Distantly, Anders knew this was probably just for show, to scare the hunters on their way out, but all it did right now was to scare him. He heard the screams of the leader and the woman as they were dragged into death, and he only let out his held breath when the door was shut and the fog slowly dissipated. Mitchell’s eyes went back to their usual brown as Donn retreated back into the Irishman’s mind, and the air was once again clear and sunny. All of the Johnson boys stood staring at the god of the dead, emotions ranging from astonishment to downright fear in their eyes. Mitchell noticed that his lover was shaking as he came back to himself, and he hurried over to wrap Anders up in his arms. The blonde clung to him, and the Johnsons finally found their voices. 

He was barraged by a cacophony of questions, but Mitchell only had eyes and ears for his lover, checking him over carefully for any signs of injury or blood. Someone, probably Axl, cried out and screamed when the bodies of the hunters disappeared, as if they’d never existed. Yet another working of Donn, one Anders and MItchell would have to explain to them later. For now, though, the fear was gone, and the two were so wrapped up in each other that they might as well have been the only people on the planet. Anders would never get used to how powerful his lover could become when Anders was threatened, and Mitchell knew that Anders could be just as fearsome and wild when it came to defending the dark-haired man.

Safe and unscathed, the two finally pulled away from each other enough to kiss, softly, reassuringly, reminding themselves that their lover was alive and well. The other Johnson boys waited impatiently for them to finish reacquainting themselves, then began their barrage of questions all over again. This time, though, Mitchell was finally ready to talk to them, with Anders by his side, as it was meant to be. 

 

* * *

 

And if the bodies of the hunters showed up in their headquarters, their eyes wide with fear and their skin pale as a ghost, well, Donn could hardly be faulted for warning them what would happen if they ever touched his vessel and his vessel’s beloved ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Brennisteinn" by Sigur Rós. Brennisteinn, according to the internet, means sulfur in Icelandic.


End file.
